Lucky Tides
by emporer hobbes
Summary: An Island where the most amazing treasure lies if the sands don't kill you first , a privateer surrounded by the most irritating of tit-heads, a pirate crew who can only point to their captain in reply and say "tell us about it," and the most fetching and charming of princesses. Well, her sister anyway. Spain/fem!Romano, USUK, and some BTT. Pirate/Regency AU
1. Chapter 1

**Who wants to hear a story? Specifically, one about pirates, magic, the faintest whiff of a mystery, love, and a fair amount of adventure? **

…**No? Not really?**

**Well, what if I told you that we had a pirate! Spain and England? Hm? Regency AU? Doing anything for you? **

**No?**

…**Spamano?**

…

**Well, screw it, I tried. **

The _H.M.S Buttercup_ bobbed and floated amiably in place on the vast blue surface. The only break in the panorama surrounding the ship was the island about 20 meters of the port side, a perfect ring of white sand surrounding the impossibly thick mass of impossibly tall trees and other fauna, growing so close together as to be impenetrable. The small crew had taken all but one of the jollyboats, and the small crafts were littered about the beach like a child's blocks in a sloppy row.

The only members of the crew not scouring the edge of the trees for a way pass the veritable wall of vegetation was the captain and first mate poring over a map together, still close to the shore.

The captain was in mid-point when he suddenly tipped over and fell without another word, lying completely still. The mate soon joined him, the arm with the map in hand thrown over his head in repose. The crew swarmed to the bodies, all abuzz as they examined the pulses no longer present and the suddenness in which the deaths had come. In the hubbub, three more fell in a similar fashion within the minute, and in their turn had the hubbub come to them, and soon two or three fell upon examination. Thus it went for about eight minutes, until all fifteen of the uniformed blue, sunburned carcasses lay on the white sand.

Not half an hour later, the last jollyboat left behind was rowed out as close to the shore as it could get without beaching, close to the mate's outstretched hand, still clasping the map. The rower's free hand (the other occupied in holding her nose against the stink of death), as smooth and nut-brown as the mate's was burned and peeling, pried the precious paper out of the death grip and placed the damp parchment in the bag on her lap, always careful to keep within the boat, never touching the sand.

She rowed until she was about forty meters away from the lonely _Buttercup_, counting the strokes she took with the oars, and then sat to wait, rubbing her chafed wrists and ankles, eyeing for the sails that would come within the hour. They knew where to come by _now,_ she thought as she spat into the water, once for every stroke she'd taken away from the island. This whole business had happened before, and God knew it would probably happen again.

* * *

Lars didn't understand _why_ the Captain didn't just let Lottie go alone on this mission. His sister was the only person in the world who could wear thirty pounds of jewelry and silk and still legitimately _flit_ across the marble floor like she belonged in that iridescent, wealthy, inbred mass. Lars only felt heavy and stiff in his absurd suit and the stupid pomade Lottie had smeared across his hair. He had protested; his part in this escapade was to be played in the shadows, thus rendering any real use he could play in this charade completely obsolete.

But Lottie had some very persuasive methods, and he had very fragile kneecaps. She also claimed greater knowledge of how grand plots and intrigues should be carried out at Princesses engagement balls. So there he was, smelling and looking like an unloved penguin.

He supposed the explanation for the ball was pretty enough—the Spectacular and Shocking Betrothal, as the newspapers were calling it, was between this small country's princess, Alicia Felicita Vargas, and the prince of it's mighty northern neighbor, Ludwig Martin Beilshmidt, "the brute" among his many monikers.

This "brute" had long ago jokingly made a specific arrangement for his marriage in a public comment about the law that the brother to marry first in his family would inherit the throne. It looked very clear the crown and its responsibilities would fall to him, especially when one looked at his elder (and only) brother's… let us say "poor" behavior. The "brute" had firmly stated that there was only so much his brother could get away with, and he was rather determined that his brother would do his share of work, and in comparison to Ludwig's load thus far, that equated the role of "king."

"A very smart reply, your Highness," said the fortunate interviewer, a now infamous lady by name ofHéderváry. "But, aren't you more prepared for marriage than he?"

"She'll have to strike me dumbfounded, first," replied the unfortunate Ludwig with the vaguest chortle and smirk.

Now, almost two years later, Héderváry had bought the newspaper company she used to slave for, and turned the paper into one of the more successful publishers of, shall we say, _surprising_ fiction magazines. The fortune had earned her more money, it was rumored, than the Archduke and Czar's lovechild.

Ludwig, however, waged battle with the soon tiresome horde of young women, all certain they could astound him, with beauty, with wit, with wisdom, etc.

It became a diplomatic game—the girl in question would have three days to astound him more times than he had fingers on his hands (ten). He had been accosted by the Archduke's, the Czar's, the butcher's-baker's-and-candlestick-maker's daughters and sisters, and none could accomplish the task and grey hairs were threatening to sprout on his head, and he had been full of piss and vinegar when the little princess from the little southern country of hardly any consequence announced her arrival.

Said little princess, already and unknowingly the assumed vicim of three days worth of his ire, completed the task before the first day was out. And by the time her time was up, the prince had reportedly lost years off his face, and very eager to propose. No one really knew just how the little creature had done it, but here was Lars in 'appropriate' attire, and there was that tip of the upper crust crowd on that marble floor, and there was Lottie signaling him to take his position outside meaning that the plan was REALLY happening, so something rather noteworthy must have resulted from those few days.

Lars wasn't sure how keen he was on the plan. It was too simplistic. The Captain liked to say that arranging for everything jinxed the whole enterprise, and Lars normally agreed. But that was alright for ordinary business. This was a royal abduction, for crap's sake. This plan had Lars excuse himself (if he had been talking to anyone, thank God he wasn't) for a smoke on the veranda ("but captain, someone might offer to join me." "Nonsense, _bichito!_ It's posh-speak for 'I need to take a piss, maybe a nice wank…" "Shut up, really?" "That's what it meant at Naval Academy"). But he wouldn't be off for the veranda, for neither a smoke nor a piss/wank. He would be at the greenhouse, and Lottie would approach one of the Ladies in Waiting with a message from the royal debutante's fiancé that he wanted to speak privately in the greenhouse (the "brute" would be out for an errand at this point. Probably a "smoke on the veranda" or… well, an actual smoke on an actual veranda). And one-two-three, she'd come to the greenhouse discreetly as possible while Lars waited with his cravat and a bottle of chloroform, then he would escape through the drain in the greenhouse floor, get her into the canvas bag waiting for him below the meeting point for Roderich, and away they'd go.

The greenhouse had very standard fare—magnificent red roses, enormous frilly peonies, hanging orchids—Sweet Saint Elmo, were those tulips? He bit his knuckle to stifle a cry of glee at the sight. Sweet little tulips, pink and yellow and oh hang him with a soaped rope there were _painted_ ones too? Well, he knew where _he_ would be lying in wait.

His timing couldn't have been more perfect. As soon as he settled behind the long flowerpot the door creaked open and the soft padding sounds of footsteps were accompanied by the swish of silk. The steps were a ways away from him, that he could hear, all the way over by the roses. With great care, he raised his head so his eyes could peer between the stems.

Her figure was vague (well, that was silly; the shapeless dresses these days did that to everyone's figure), but her dress' fabric was a richly-dyed pink silk, her dark hair clean and glossy and piled on her head, and on her left hand a brilliant red ruby the size of a robin's egg gleamed, surrounded by little diamonds.

If she wasn't the princess, he was a good God-fearing nun with a flying wimple. A good God-fearing nun with a flying wimple who certainly didn't have a chloroform-soaked cravat and the full intention of using it.

It would only be a few more steps, carefully done and perfectly soundless, until it was pressed against her (still-unseen) face, and—

"HRAGH!" Wham-slam-thank-you-ma'am, he felt that egg-sized ruby indent his cheek and crash against his teeth, cutting his tongue. He sprang back, though, faster than if he'd been filled with helium, and grabbed the decorative bow on the back of her dress as she turned to run away, pulled, and pressed the chloroformed cravat into her face. She got a few more hits in, and some claws, too, before going limp in his arms.

A little bloodier than anticipated, but successful all the same, he worked the drain open and just like that, they were gone.

If you were one of the few looking out a window or wandering about in solitude the night of Princess Alicia's betrothal ball to Ludwig Martin "the brute" Beilschmidt instead of drinking to Fairy Tales Come True, Love, and Their Good Health in any of the cantinas, you'd have seen a horse and cab come to a halt, the cab directly over a manhole. And if you'd been ground-level and looking, you'd have noticed said manhole's cover pushed aside and a canvas sack pushed/lifted through the bottom of the cab. Then, a man with badly pomaded hair and disheveled evening dress minus the cravat would have lifted himself in under your watchful and curious eye. Then the cab would have gone on its way.

* * *

But the next day, if you were Signor DiGiulio, the cabbie who owned the horse and vehicle, you would raise your eyebrow at the sight of a noticeable hole in the floor of your cab.

Hours before Signor diGiulio even awoke before the rest of town to see something was amiss, though, Captain Antonio F. Carriedo and hid None Too Legitimate crew of the Mite Too Jolly Ship "El Cuco" would have a rather sizable shit storm on their hands.

**AN: Funfacts abound!**

** Lottie, or Charlotte, is what I will be referring to Belgium as. Lars is Netherlands.**

** Yes, Roderich (Austria) will be a pirate. Erszi (as I like to call Hungary) will be the legitimate (?) businesswoman, because of reasons.**

** This is probably the greatest taste of GerITa as I'm going to give in this here beauty. Because it's. Freaking. Spamano. And I said so, and I'm the one with the cutlass—er, computer.**

** I put in a lot of genderbend, because I am rather partial to these guys. So many fics that I've read have just had the same characters, only with opposing genitals and sex traits. I am quite fond of how different this remodeling of the characters look. And… hm. I could go on about that, but I'd only embarrass myself. **

** Look up "El Cuco," because it be scary. **

** And I just do regency over Victorian or whenever the hell "POC" takes place because shh.**

** Know what? A lot of things that I do here just oughtn't be questioned, ok? Just roll with it. I'm having fun here. And I've got a plan for once. A wonderful, wonderful Grinchy plan.**

** If you want to leave commentary and critique, don't be whining to me about "teh no yaois" because I will write a very unflattering limerick dedicated to you. You can nag me about iffy characterizations, and I wouldn't mind discussing personal interpretations AT ALL. I'd find it great fun, actually. You can give pointers for clarifying my writing style, ANYTHING related to actual writing improvement and paying homage to the work I'm shamelessly ripping off. **

** Now that that's that, happy reading, and night 'all.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I typed this wearing a deerstalker. I imagined Sherlock Holmes writing fanfiction, then. It didn't help that I Headcanon Sherlock being a massive USUK-er, who writes Twelfth Night fanfiction. Maybe I'll write that next… unless someone beats me to it. Internet: consider yourself challenged.**

"Stop! Thief!" Neither Herr Oxenstierna nor Peter could understand how the little grey-bearded tramp could out-run the two of them. Granted, the fellow had the benefit of a head start, but it could not account for such speed and stamina for almost three blocks now.

Under his raggedy arm, the tramp in question held a silver tea tray, the kind that the vendor and his son sold alongside little vases, ashtrays, spittoons, and other little knick-knacks, all with the Vargas and Beilschmidt family crests on them, joined with an imprinted "ring," with the year underneath in fine northern silver. It was kitsch and a mite blatant, and not always the best quality, but easy to sell. That tea tray, however, may have been the only item in the stand that was justifiably high-priced, and the Oxenstiernas were certainly not going to see that vagrant snatch what belonged on a gentleman's table.

They chased him to the corner of Russo and Ervelino when the vagrant stopped only for a minute and looked down Russo. Startled by what he saw (yet unknown to the Oxenstiernas), he tore off down the same street to his left. The Oxenstiernas looked over their shoulders to see a stunning _Lipizzaner_ donned in the royal colors, ridden by a very young man in a guard's uniform.

It was a moment that Peter was convinced would only occur in his fantasies. The Vargas family White Guard, though subjects of much scorn and surrender jokes, were the few guards in the world who were trained in every branch of royal security—they were the bodyguards, the secret service, the snipers, the military commanders, the naval officers, the detectives, the everything dangerous and defense related. Most of all, they were supremely ineffective because of the sheer idiocy and impossibility of the system, but to a boy of ten, it was only a matter of finding the right person to balance everything given and be an expert in all of it.

Naturally, he reasoned, that would be him when they saw him.

So, like any boy with dreams he knew were going to become reality, he'd practiced—he wrestled with the dogs at home (the other boys saw too much sense in negotiating), sparred with the trees (Herr Oxenstierna would spar with him but always let him win), and would climb any available surface (he was getting scarred knees from falling, but he was trying anyway).

The young guard was riding along at a gallop in the direction of the thief, who was finally starting to look winded after his mad sprinting; so winded, that he had to grasp the corner of the _pensione_ at the corner, gasping for breath, giving Peter easy access to tackle him to the ground in a style that he hoped would impress the guard, making the tea tray clatter against the pavement. The guard halted the horse, dismounted, and promptly hauled Peter up off the pavement.

Before the guard could utter a word of thanks for the boy's clumsy heroics, the horse he had ridden in on suddenly tore off in the opposite direction. Immediately, the scratched, bruised, and now-bleeding Peter felt the need to re-establish his bravado, and raced after the animal while Herr Oxenstierna related the incident and details to the guard. It didn't get very far, only a block and a half, and he caught the reins fairly easily, relieved at the chance to rest and settle his burning lungs. The horse was jittery, and went so far as to trumpet and rear up when he caught the reins. Frightened, he backed away, only to see the beast tear off again. Exhausted and sore inside and out, he miserably turned to return to his father and the guard, dreading the next day when he was so certain the guard would be telling his guard friends over fencing practice or boxing or riding or catching crooks about the useless, silly boy Peter who couldn't catch a measly horse and had a horrible tackling technique, and…

There was a cab at the _pensione_ where he had left his father and the guard talking about the little tramp who had fooled them with begging for bread and snitching the tray while their backs had turned in search. A cab that the little tramp was hopping into while the guard had Herr Oxenstierna pinned to the wall in a violent, restraining hold. The taller man issued a few kicks to the guard's shins, but was rendered powerless when the guard smashed a knee between his legs. Peter was motionless with exhaustion and horror as he watched the false guard release his father's arms let him crumple to the pavement in agony, then turn to hop into the cab. Peter then caught a frantic whisper; words that sounded almost like "don't just sit there, get the tray!" Whatever they were, they gave the imposter (it had to be an imposter, guards didn't do that to civilians, there was a code of sorts, wasn't there?) guard reason to turn and snatch the silver tray from the ground before hopping in. And with that, the cab driver snapped his whip and the vehicle dashed away.

* * *

Ludwig had never been happier going to a ballroom, let alone any social function, then he was at that particular moment in time. Realistically, he knew he would never feel this way again; the combination of endorphins from this romance, the giddiness accompanying transitions of this magnitude, and a properly timed glass of very high-quality scotch was to blame for this state of mind. But, as his Alicia would say, "give me your card so I may contact you when I find the time to care."

His Alicia.

He tarried at the door, watching for her. She wasn't dancing, they decided it would look awful for her to be dancing with anyone else but him and family tonight, but she was chatting with that dandy lord from one of these eastern provinces, the one with ties to that dreadful lady journalist who had gotten that infamous quote of his (he'd have to send her flowers later).

He had long ago learned not to go to her when he spotted her. She would only vanish to another far off corner, not seeing him. Instead, he figured out, he ought to wait for her to spot him, and then she would come without fail. He had once brought to attention that she might not see him at all, or that he might not be close by.

"Don't be a goose," she had scolded. "I'll always look for you, and you'll always be within spitting distance, because we're dreadfully co-dependant. And we'll get so used to that proximity, even when we're old and this infatuation cools, it'll become habit."

The thought of forming habits with her made him giddy. Many thoughts of doing anything with her as husband and wife made him giddy.

She caught sight of him then, and her gimlet eyes widened in mild surprise.

"Dear me," said the gentleman, Lord Feliks Very-Odd-Name. "He looks positively ill."

"No, " she assured him, already on her way to Ludwig. "That's just grinning for him."

He descended the stairs as she gingerly nudged her way through the crowd, and he bit his lip to hide a laugh, knowing that she was fighting the habit of running in his direction and that he would have to hold back the urge to spin her in the air when she got to him.

"You're back soon," she remarked as she took his offered arm. "I thought I'd be talking to Feliks for another hour at least."

"Well, I missed you."

The music changed, then. It was an unfamiliar lilting tempo that only the eastern fop Feliks Very-Odd-Name seemed to know. They watched as the crowd shifted away to make room for a circle-shaped space in the center of the ballroom, the outline of which Feliks was wandering, a hand extended to any lady who knew the dance.

There was a ripple and a murmur in the crowd as another gentleman maneuvered his way to the same space, a quietly handsome person who was dressed well enough to be at least a minor lord. There was some tittering at the sight, and Feliks raised a well-groomed eyebrow.

"That's Toris," Alicia whispered in Ludwig's ear. "Toris Lorinaitis. I spoke with him earlier. He and Feliks are neighbors. He shoots, too. I told him the pair of you ought to go out sometime, shoot some boar or whatever it is men do on Girls-Not-Allowed outings."

When the crowd had quieted somewhat, Feliks smirked and offered his hand, palm up. Toris approached at a casual saunter, eyed the hand in mock distaste, and offered his own in the same position. There was a collective _"oooooh"_ from the crowd, then quiet as the two faced off, both fighting smirks. Then Feliks rolled his eyes and took the offered hand amid laughing and golf-claps. There was more laughter as they briefly fussed over where the hands should go, shoulder or waist, until they settled for shoulders and finally danced to the music.

Ludwig hadn't seen dancing like that before, only for two people and very close together. If one of them had allowed a hand to settle on the other's waist, it would have been a very unusual picture indeed, almost embracing, gliding and spinning around like that to the strangely pulsing music. But if it had been a man and a woman dancing like that… something about the whole thing was as indecent to watch as it was hypnotizing.

"That's a waltz," Alicia whispered to him, the sudden puff of warm air shocking him. "It's very popular out east, especially in the Archduke's court. You're going to learn it."

"Am I?"

"Of course you are. We're going to make it very popular, you and I, when we're married."

He fought another grin. "It looks like dizzy work."

"They look like swans."

The grin started to win and spread across his face. "Wouldn't you mind having a husband nicknamed 'the swan?"

"It's a fair exchange. Since we've started this whole 'engaged' business, people've been calling me 'the daisy.'"

"Beg pardon?"

"Something symbolic about my many virtues or some-such. Shh, watch."

He did for a minute or two, or pretended to, anyway. It was hard to focus on a couple of strangers when the woman you mean to spend the rest of your earthly life with is right beside you, holding your arm as if it's home, and very eager to share something very important that has just occurred to you.

"Alicia?"

"That's what my mama named me."

"I feel I ought to discuss something with you."

"Oh my. "

He leaned in, close to her ear. "Look around. Especially the ladies. What do you see?"

She was quiet for a minute, sincerely looking. In moments like these, Ludwig knew, he could have his turn at shocking her. It was only fair, he reasoned. "Of all of them, Alicia, all of them, they would have readily gone in to win me. You and I know perfectly well, of course, they had the same chance as a snowball in hell.

"But Alicia. Even if they had surprised me once, that would have been it. All their work would be done, and as I fulfilled my end of the bargain, i.e, wooing, they would have dropped shock bombs along the way. "

His hand tightened around hers. "There is not one, Alicia, not one of them, who would have pursued me as you did me, with that kind of dedication, sincerity, all of it. All of you. There's not one other on earth who could've done that. Maybe we'll get all sorts of news about how you're not a proper woman for doing what you did, and I'm not a proper man, but I mean to slaughter every one of those nay-sayers where they stand because I am going to marry a woman who fought to get me, and I aim to keep her, so—"

"Ludo," was the responding whisper, a breathless note barely registered, her face still fixed the crowd before them.

Forget the crowd. They were fixating on the questionable propriety of the dance between those two gents. Ludwig and Alicia were here, and she could pinch him later, that murmur needed to be responded by a Ludwig's mouth on an Alicia's neck.

"Oh, Soup-Hair—"

"Ludo. _Ludwig. _No."

He halted then, realizing that they were on two very different pages—when he had heard a gasping anxiety in her voice, he had taken it for… well, _not_ the panic she was actually experiencing right now.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't see Chiara."

Oh. He felt a wave of relief. "You don't have to mother-hen your older sister, that's her job and I'll let her keep doing it because it's dangerous to tell her to do otherwise. She's probably stepped out for a minute…"

"No, Ludwig," she cut him off, facing him, her eyes sharp and frightened. "She went out to the greenhouse twenty minutes ago."

"The greenhouse?"

"Yes. You wanted to meet me there, and…"

He shook his head. "I was in the library for the last twenty minutes. When I left she was still in the ballroom."

She took a quick step towards the door but Ludwig caught her arm. "Let me look. I can see a little more than you."

He did a once-over the crowd, looking for Chiara's curly dark head, but no luck.

"Alright, then, she's not here. But I'm sure your parents…"

Alicia was already pulling herself away and making her hasty way to the balcony, and Ludwig wasted no time following. The two of them scanned over the view of the garden for a glimpse of her, with no success.

"The greenhouse," Alicia said under her breath, before tearing off again down the steps to the garden.

"But she wouldn't still be there," Ludwig called after her. "That was ages ago!"

"With the way things are turning out," replied Alicia over her shoulder, "let's hope she has the patience of a rock."

Ludwig stopped her outside the greenhouse door. "I'll go in with you."

"What if she's outside?"

He paused. "Do you have a gun or a knife handy?"

"No, neither."

He dug in his pocket. Handing her the sheathed dagger, he ordered, "you're going to call me if you're in trouble. And in the microscopic time it takes me to get there, you're going to use this on whatever it is. Understand?"

"Yessir."

He kissed her forehead hard before turning to scope the greenhouse exterior. Muscles tensed, he prowled in the dark, listening for sounds that couldn't be mistaken for birds or garden-variety rodents, searching for holes in the ground where none had been before, even subconsciously smelling for things that shouldn't belong in a garden…

"LUDO!"

The shriek brought him back to reality, and if he hadn't been close to the back door, he would have smashed the glass.

"ALICIA!"

She was standing towards the front entrance, where the tulips were potted, standing on one of the pots, holding her skirts away from the floor, holding the knife aloft.

He shouldn't have, but he smiled a little, holding out a hand to help her down. "Oh dear. Did the mouse king pop up and threaten to eat your toes?"

"LUDWIG BEHIND YOU!"

"Hm? Oh- OH GOTT—"

Between his feet was a huge rat, black and squeaking with half a tail. It scurried away, but not very far. The dagger Alicia had been wielding came down and pierced it through the middle, killing it instantly and clattering against the floor.

Both were still and shivery for a moment, then Alicia took the offered hand. He held her close for a moment before setting her down.

"Did it bite you?"

"No. You?"

"No."

Finally, finally, after far too long, the guards came filing in, followed by party members.

"Alicia?" he whispered, "Soup-Hair? We'll have to look elsewhere…"

"No," she replied, her voice shaky. "No. Ludwig. She was _here._ And whoever took her went down that drain in the floor. That rat, Ludwig? Did you smell it? That was _sewer_ rat. It came from that drain, and…"

She broke off, shivering, and exhaled several shaky breaths into his chest. Ludwig directed his attention to the nearest guard.

"You there."

"Yessir."

"What's your name?"

"Vainamoinen, sir. Lieutenant Vainamoinen."

"Right. Lieutenant, do you know where this drain leads?"

"It connects to the downtown system, sir."

"I want you to take these men here and search the downtown area, specifically where there are drains, manholes, the like. Do you understand?"

"Crystal clear, sir."

"Is your Captain here?"

"No, sir."

"Go find him and tell him he and as many men as he needs can go investigate the drain system. Go."

"Yessir."

As the Lieutenant left, he called for the Lady-in-Waiting who had received and passed on the fatal message. She stepped up, a girl he recognized as the Captain's younger sister, Lilli.

"I want you to tell me," he started, "exactly how the exchange between you and this other lady went."

She wet her lips. "Well, your Highness, she just came up to me, and said she was a member of your entourage. She looked it, too. She said that you had a message to give to Princess Alicia, that you wanted to meet in the greenhouse. She must have come up to me the moment you were out of the room."

"And did she say who she got the message from?"

"She just said 'a message from His Highness Prince Ludwig.' I went to pass the message to Princess Alicia, and the exchange was overheard by her sister, the Princess Chiara. She was rather disapproving of the entire plot, and said she would go herself to, well…"

"'Send me to my boring heathen god in my boring heathen heaven,' or something to that effect, I shouldn't wonder."

The joke didn't do anything to soothe Alicia, but it made the other girl smile. "Rather, your Highness. And then she left."

He paused. "The woman who gave you the message, did you get a name?"

She shook her head, frowning again. "No. I'm afraid I didn't."

"Would you recognize her if you saw her again?"

"Perhaps, but I haven't seen her since. She was blonde, I remember, and had a fringe. It wasn't a very distinctive face at all. She was wearing a blue dress, though…"

Lieutenant Vainamoinen came running back in. "Your Highness, we've found Captain Zwingli."

"… Terrific? Well done?"

"Sir, you had better come with me. Lilli, you too."

* * *

Captain Zwingli was found approximately ten minutes to midnight, unconscious, bare of his uniform, left arm broken, hog tied and gagged with pieces of a woman's blue sash. His unconscious form was donned in the remains of a dress, the same hue as the sash. Naturally, Lilli recognized the dress.

**AN: Oh, Lottie, you dastardly creature. This chapter originally was going to be much longer. The next installment will see the finale of the kidnap, and the beginning of the adventure.**

**So, Lilli is Liechtenstein, and I trust you can figure out who the Lieutenant and Captain are meant to be. I will give more of a backstory to Peter and Herr Oxensteirna, and the Lieutenant will have his fair share of story too. I also gave you a little gratuitous LietPol. They will probably not play a major role in this story, but if I continue to play in this universe, they'll get their turn.**

**Fun fact! The waltz was spreading through Europe during the Regency, and was considered racier than typical ballroom dances of the time. Partially due to the rhythm, the closeness of the dancers, all that jazz. It was created in a Polish village, which is why Feliks is such a natural at it. It gained popularity in the Viennese court, which is where it started to spread.**

**The White Guards are a joke on the white flags of Hetalia. **

**Who the tray thief is will be a mystery for the next time. The young Guard is Lottie, and the cabbie is Roderich. **

**Also, look up the Lippazanner stallions. It's a fascinating history.**

"**Ludo" is the traditional German diminutive for "Ludwig." That's why Alicia calls him that. In Hima-Pappa's notes, the fem!North Italy is more kickass than her male counterpart, so I imagine her being more capable in her fear, and more able to defend Ludwig than Feliciano. **

**And rats are scary as fuck. Especially back then. Remember the plague? And pretty much every nasty illness you want not in your life because it spread mass chaos throughout Europe way back when? Those were mostly rats' fault. That's why Ludwig freezes up with fear when the critter shows up. Hesh. **

**And, um, the whole "Soup-Hair" thing. That comes from a very unusual German endearment—"you are the hair in my soup." I doubt there's actually an endearment "Soup-hair," but that's its origin. Also, I thought it was fun because of Italy's "ahoge."**

**Please direct thoughts, feelings, and critique to the comment box.**


	3. Chapter 3

Lieutenant Vainamoinen was irate. He and his men had not been downtown for fifteen minutes, and already they were falling apart as a group.

They had never been the most organized of people, these White Guards, and their lack of hastiness made him miss the northern militia. The northern militia would have had their horses tacked in three minutes and be prepared to ride out as a unit, while these fools took over ten minutes. Had this unfortunate business surrounding Zwingli occurred at home, the militia would have been on the move eight minutes after the body had been found; this group took nearly eight minutes to call together. Now, take those precious eight minutes, add the ten for tacking, then the fifteen minute ride downtown, and these nincompoops had wasted thirty-three minutes, giving the abductors over half an hour head-start.

There had been seven other guards with him when the Prince had given the order for the guards present in the greenhouse to investigate the downtown area. Since the Captain was out of commission, the dubious honor of sewage investigation fell to another Lieutenant by name of Karpusi. Vainamoinen was grateful to have _(finally)_ led his men out before he had to witness Karpusi's deplorable team selection. He respected the man, he truly did, it's hard to dislike a tolerant intellectual, but Karpusi was _such_ a paragon of all the prejudices Vainamoinen held against the White Guard—shiftless, absent-minded, and completely useless with a rifle.

Still, at least Karpusi wasn't as bad as this twit, Antonini, who was far from intellectual and farther from tolerant. He had been the one to propose the group of eight divide into pairs, each pair investigating a different direction of the city, and had elected that he would investigate the south of the city with Vainamoinen, and all he had done thus far was make uncreative jokes about his accent and his height and if Vainamoinen had to hear one more crack, he would gladly be held accountable for smashing Antonini's moronic little-

"Excuse us! Please!"

Vainamoinen snapped out of his grandiose murder fantasies when he caught sight of the young boy approaching them. He appeared to be supporting a giant of a man who was almost doubled-over in pain.

Antonini called over to the boy- "Hey now! What's the problem, little one?"

The boy started and began to stutter, and Antonini rolled his eyes.

"Damn foreigners," he muttered. "Call for help and don't know how—"

Vainamoinen dismounted before he decided to shoot Antonini. He approached the boy, and did a quick assessment—he certainly looked foreign, almost like one of the Prince's entourage. That was all well and good, he knew a fair amount of their language. He could get a brief summary of events, and, if needed, could assemble one of the more proficient guards.

"What's your name?" he asked, kneeling before the boy. He got a wide-eyed look of fear and confusion, then the boy spoke in a language Vainamoinen had not heard in a long time.

"Please, can you understand me?" he asked, looking close to tears. Vainamoinen, taken aback at suddenly hearing his first language after so long, took a moment to collect himself to reply.

"Yes. Yes, I can, very well. What's your name?"

The boy sagged in relief, almost dropping his companion. "Peter. Peter Oxenstierna. This is my father. He's hurt, please, can you—"

Vainamoinen immediately set about taking the larger man off of the boy's shoulders and helping him sit down on the ground.

"Peter, eh?" he managed, smiling, hoping that he looked collected enough to calm the boy. "Good name. Tougher than mine. I'm Timo."

Vainamoinen saw that the boy's father, Oxenstierna, had his hand pressed firmly above his hip. He reached to pull it away to see the wound Oxenstierna was hiding, but the injured man caught a firm hold of his wrist with his spare hand. Startled, Vainamoinen looked up at him, taken aback by the intense blue stare, magnified under spectacles. It was a young face, not much older than Vainamoinen, startlingly young to be a father.

"Please," said Oxenstierna, using the local language, his voice surprisingly deep, "he doesn't need to know."

Vainamoinen gulped and responded in the same language. "How bad?"

"Deep, but not too much. Nothing's punctured, I think. Bleeding, though."

"By who? Could you tell?"

"A girl. Wearing a guard's uniform."

Vainamoinen stilled at that.

Oh.

_Oh._

"Vainy, get your ass in gear, or I'm gonna catch the '_mordororrrr'_ on my—"

_Antonini, we are not looking for a murderer, we are looking for a kidnapper, and unless you shut up, there will be a murder and no one will ever find you! _

Vainamoinen whipped his head to Antonini, but only managed to growl out "_Antonini!" _ before he realized he sounded like a put-off hedgehog when he was angry and, really, how was that going to save him face especially with that accent?

He pursed his lips, then turned his attention back to Oxenstierna, whose eyes were closed and mouth turned up slightly at the corners, giggling in a rumbly sort of way. Determined not to smile at the sound, Vainamoinen pressed, this time in the language all three of them understood. "The girl who did this, was she alone?"

"I don't know," replied Oxenstierna, "I couldn't tell. I wasn't very comfortable at the time."

"There was a cab," Peter burst out. "She hopped into it afterwards, and so did the tramp."

"'Tramp?'" asked Vainamoinen. "How many were there? Was there anyone in the cab?"

Peter shook his head, blue eyes wide. "I don't know. It just went that way," he said, pointing ahead of them, southeast.

Oxenstierna began to slump further, eyes still sliding closed. Panicking, Vainamoinen helped him up and hoisted him on his back. It looked absurd, with Oxenstierna's longer legs dragging behind them as Vainamoinen, who stood several centimeters smaller, pulled him to Antonini.

"This is Herr Oxenstierna," he said, hoisting him up on Anonini's saddle. "He's got information about our kidnappers and he's wounded. Get him back to the castle, and tell the men you see to raise up the signal and follow me southeast. We're going to pay Lucrece a visit."

As Antonini rode off, Vainamoinen turned his attention back to Peter.

"Tell me, Peter, how far did you see them go?"

"They just kept Southeast. They must be past the city limits by now…"

Vainamoinen nodded. "Then it's just as I thought. They're headed towards the Lucrece pass."

He was about to hoist himself up on Kalevala when a sudden, cold realization dawned on him: he had sent away the boy's father with Antonini with the vague hope that the incompetent nitwit would _see_ other members of the search party who would know how to quickly send up the signal and gather to quickly head in their direction.

But it was not as bad as the fact that this boy, Peter, had nowhere to go at the moment.

_Someone's going to be very cross with me,_ Vainamoinen thought as he asked "Peter, would you want to come along?"

* * *

"Lars, you smell worse than I do," said the little tramp as he pulled off the last of the grey wool on his chin, throwing it down the gaping hole in the bottom of the cab.

The young man sitting across from him glowered at him. "Well, that's what sweat, bad cigars' smoke, godawful pomade, and sewers will do to you, captain."

Tossing away the last of the grey wool, the swarthy, handsome face of young pirate captain, Antonio F. Carriedo, broke into an impish grin. He was careful not to laugh for Lottie's sake; his First Mate's twin was dozing, her head on her brother's shoulder. If someone didn't know that not two hours earlier she had done grievous physical harm to a White Guard and exchanged clothes with his broken, unconscious body, someone would say she looked damn near angelic.

"You make it sound like you endured all thirteen circles of hell," the Captain teased. "You didn't get hunted down by a giant and then assaulted by his dwarf."

"You didn't take down the giant and ward off his dwarf," muttered the half-conscious Lottie before drifting off again.

Immediately, the Captain looked to Lars, mouth open and ready to argue. But before Antonio could speak again, Lars spat a shot of bloody saliva through the cab's floor. At his friend's astonished look, Lars gave a cheeky, bloody grin. Dumbfounded, the Captain pointed to the canvas sack propped up against Lars' other side in an unspoken question, the one with cut-out holes that Lars had put the unconscious princess into during his sewer adventure.

Grimly, Lars indicated to the many bloody scratches and gouges on his face, lingering on the bloody gouge on his forehead, then affirmatively jerked his thumb in the sack's direction. The Captain clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his howl of laughter. He had yet to see the sack's contents, but so far it was easy to see how easily she must have shocked "the brute" and yet have won him over so quickly.

"Laugh at me, why don't you," Lars grumbled.

Still fighting laughter, the captain leant over. "_Bichito,_ you did spectacularly. You, and your divine sister. And to celebrate, we're going to have that sangria, and I'll convince Roddy to make that torte, and…"

A sudden knock from the driver interrupted the captain's plans.

"Captain," said Roderich, "the White Guard are approaching, so I suggest we activate… Operation Sixpins, was it? Lars, you'll want to wake your sister for this. And Captain, you'll get that torte when we meet again in hell. Hold onto the cargo, and we're off in three, two…"

* * *

The capitol of this small country is situated on the coast, the city nestled atop a massive, natural harbor, and surrounded by the enormous cliffs, historically named "Lucrece's Wall." Southeast of the city is a road carved into the cliffs, called "Lucrece's Pass." It was, in ancient times, a tunneled road leading to and from the silver mines in the cliffs, but time and the sea wore away at the wall of the tunnel, leaving the road open and exposed. It's a wide road, more than wide enough for cab, or for a row of Lipizzaners, to comfortably make their way across.

The danger is in the side of the path that faces the sea- a dramatically steep fall for nearly thirty metres, landing on sharp rocks and crashing waves. Not twenty years before the events of this story was the pass finally closed, previously a popular tourist attraction.

It was once heavily guarded, but soon the White Guard became confident that the general population knew better than to meander the hazardous trail, leaving a rather charming gate and warning sign in place of their Guardhouse. Rather effective, and very pretty in the springtime when the ivy grows twines around the signpost.

But ivy isn't strong enough to anchor wood against efficient and determined arms.

Peter only hoped that Timo's determined arm would be efficient enough to cling Peter.

The boy was riding with the Lieutenant on his Lippazanner, a mare named Kalevala, on the treacherous path. Timo had set Peter on the front of the saddle, one arm clinging around the boy's waist There were four other Guards in their party, riding with swords and muskets, and the wind was roaring in their ears and tearing at their faces.

Peter had never enjoyed himself more.

He was already formulating what he would say when the Guard caught up to the cab, what details of this ride he would share with the other children at home (every detail, naturally, the more details you have the more credible you are because they would never ever ever believe him not in a million years), and what he would name his Lippazanner when he became a White Guard (he had been going for 'Leviathan' but 'Timo' was becoming a contender).

He was just determining what adjective would do the most justice to the rocks at the moment (jagged? Rough-hewn? Bumpy?), when the wind stopped hissing in his ears and burning his eyes shut as the horses quickly came to a halt. He opened his eyes as the arm around his waist tightened marginally, and saw that the coach they had been chasing, not twenty yards ahead of them, had come to a halt, and the passengers were, one by one, exiting the vehicle. There was the false guard, and a shape in the tramp's clothes, and a young man in evening dress cradling a sack. The driver was the last to descend, and as he moved to the front of the cab to the horse, Peter heard Timo gasp an "oh no," and hopped out of the saddle, lifting Peter out with him.

Peter was pulled along behind the horses, to the cliff wall. He tried to stand on his toes, to see the action, but Timo kept gently pushing his head down to a crouch, which Peter found rather hypocritical, considering Timo was finding a good footing on the rock wall, presumably to start climbing up.

"Peter," he whispered urgently, "I need you to get on my back, hold on very tightly, and not let go. Could you do that for me? Please?"

Peter had learnt that when adults asked you to something with a _please_, it usually indicated something very serious indeed. And, besides, if Timo meant to climb the rock wall, they would get a fairly decent view of the action. And so he clambered on obligingly and clasped on tightly as the Lieutenant began to climb.

Glancing over his shoulder, Peter saw the cab being turned around completely, with the cab horse facing the line of Guards. He couldn't see the cabbie or the rest of the passengers behind the cab, but he caught a glimpse of a shining gun barrel over the top of the cab as Timo climbed higher and—

_BANG!_

The shock of the blast nearly cost Peter his grip on Timo and Timo's grip on the rock. In his fear, Peter had buried his face in the Lieutenant's shoulder, but resurfaced when he realized that the ringing in his ears were preventing him from hearing the continuing action.

It was chaos.

The cab horse, spooked by the shot, had galloped towards the Guards, still aligned on the tight path. In their confusion and panic, the riders were alternatively shoving and pushing their ways to turn around on the path, and some had tripped down the steep edge, and Peter watched in fascinated horror as the men and their horses became white-tipped splashes in the waves, grateful that his hearing was still fuzzy because they must be shrieking all the way down, and there went Timo's horse, Kalevala…

Timo was climbing again, giving Peter an excuse to wrap tighter around his frame as they went higher. At the top, he found he had regained enough hearing to understand Timo. "Peter? They came up this way, too. I don't think they saw us. I'm going to follow them, they can't have gotten far. Would you rather stay here?"

Peter would like nothing more, but he knew when he was being treated like a child, and was about to say so, but Timo cut him off—"It's just that, well, _I'd _kill for a sit-down right about now, I know that much. I'm lazy like that."

Peter smiled a little at that, and was just about to take him up on the idea, but one glance at the road below them told him that he wouldn't be able to withstand even a moment alone with that view. He was already imagining the screams.

He looked up at Timo, and tried to nonchalantly shrug and smile. "You might just sit down on the job. Can't have that."

Shrugging, Timo nodded, his tone light. "Fair enough. Come on."

* * *

"Holy sh…oe nails."

The cab's passengers couldn't have left a more obvious trail if they had tried—tall grasses bent into a clear path, tracks in the mud, and discarded pieces of a dress suit. He was glad Peter had elected to follow; they were obviously either very stupid, or disturbingly crafty in their attempts to look very stupid, and criminals who weren't afraid to look very stupid were usually very bold and heartless enough to endanger young boys.

The trail had led them to a natural harbor, veiled by thick trees, and resting in the water was a brigantine, sail up, and a rope ladder still tied to the cliff ledge. The lot of them were already wandering about the deck, and a young fellow was carrying the sack to the ship's cabin.

_Pirates._

Timo would shoot while they were distracted and claim that there were more guards hidden in the trees (hopefully, they were very stupid pirates). Peter would remain hidden, and the shot Timo would fire off would be enough to guide the other Guards who were (hopefully) on their trail. If it came to the worse, however, he would leave Peter (still hidden) with the rifle, and then run to guide the others to their location (because they had to be nearby, _had _to be, there was a limit as to how nightmarish a night could be). The fellows on the ship would be so frightened of the invisible men in the trees, they would not make any moves, and if Peter had to fire, it would be enough to convince them of it. They would hand over the sack, then the present Guards would arrest them and all would be well.

Peter's voice interrupted his plotting. "Timo? Look at this."

_This_ was an envelope, sealed elegantly with red wax imprinted with a grotesque horned and fanged turtle. On its surface, in red ink, was elegantly scribbled text—_The White Guard._

He ripped it open, finding more of the frustrating red scribbles. Fortunately, they were sizable and the moon provided enough light to make them out.

_Dearest White Guard:_

_ Getting worked up over this little escapade of ours will do you little to no good. Orders, posturing, whining, and general fussing shan't turn our heads. Ordinarily, we wouldn't dream of poking our heads into these fussy political games, but today we have made an exception. _

_ Deign yourselves honored. _

_ Never worry for her health. Investigate not into our whereabouts, lest we change our minds about our policy towards defending her health. _

_ Good fellows, we understand completely your feelings towards us. Heartily, we return them. Thinking that this current business of ours, however, has anything to do with you personally is absurd. _

_ Listen well. Attend to details. Don't take mind to everything you hear. _

_ I'd advise you re-read this little note. Examine the beginnings here. Send the brute our truest promises for her safety._

_ Love and Kisses,_

_ The Crew and Captain of El Cuco_

He blinked. _The brute?_ Why should they apologize to His Highness? Unless they had meant…

He had to stifle a laugh. That was just _too _rich, and when this was all over and done, it would be a terrific tale to share, but right now he had to focus on the work at hand.

It appeared that they had left him a cipher. He re-read the note again as a sudden wind forced him to pull his cloak around him a little tighter.

"Timo?"

"Peter, they've left us a cipher. Give me a minute, it looks rather simple…"

The beginnings, the note had read. Well, the beginning of what? The words? Getting, Orders, Ordinarily, Deign, Never, Investigate, Good, Heartily, Thinking, Listen, Attend, Don't, I'd, Examine, Set. Could they be scrambled? Seemed that way…

"Timo, I—"

"It's all right, Peter, just give me one second…"

I'd Never Deign Thinking Ordinarily Good, Don't Investigate, Examine Heartily… no, nonsensical. Set Getting Orders Never… no, no, horribly arranged. Ordinarily Thinking Orders Don't Examine…

"Timo, they—"

"Peter, can you make heads or tails of this?"

"It's the first letters, Timo. But there's—"

"First letters? Very well, what does that give us?"

G, O, O, D, N, I, G, H, T, L, A, D, I, E, S.

"Good… Night… Ladies?"

"It's a taunt."

"A taunt? What if it's a clue?"

"It's a taunt because they've taken off."

"Taken off? H—Oh _Perkele!"_

The galleon was, sure enough, being carried briskly away the brisk sea wind, already too far away for Timo's musket to shoot. Standing atop the mast in the crow's nest was a long figure, tauntingly waving a jaunty 'farewell,' doffing an elaborate feathered hat in his direction.

"What… what are we going to do, now?" asked Peter.

Timo sighed and turned to face him. "Well, I'm going to think up a nice way to tell everyone our princess has been captured by brigands. And you're going to not tell your father about the words I used in my little tantrum just now."

Peter gulped. "We'll… get them, right? They haven't won, have they?"

Timo ruffled his hair. "It looks pretty grim, but look on the bright side—it won't be long until they figure out they've got the wrong princess."

* * *

Jocelyn had spent the adventure waiting in the captain's cabin playing solitaire, occasionally polishing her firearms. She had instinctively reached for them when she had heard elephantine stomping outside on the deck, but had calmed when she had heard the familiar sounds Lars' characteristic whining, Lottie's stifled shushing, Roderich's muffled mincing, and the Captain's irrepressible giggling.

Soon enough, Lars had kicked open the door, hair stuck in all directions, a magnificent deep scratch across his brow among other little wounds, wearing nothing except his skivvies, and hefting a holey, burlap sack in his arms, which he heavily dropped on the bed.

"All yours, Jocie," he grumbled, straightening his back. "May you have better luck with the hellcat than I."

She stood briskly, tearing off a corner of her apron. He stopped her, saying, "no, no, she's fine, she only got the best of me."

She tore off the corner, anyway, standing on her toes in front of him. "Your head's bleeding like a stuck pig," she explained as she tied it around his brow. He blinked, stunned. "Er. Thanks."

Satisfied, she lowered herself, patting his shoulder. "Be a dear and thank me by putting the machinery back."

He rolled his eyes, but complied, gathering up the guns. "These unloaded?"

"No. You were bleeding pretty badly. You can thank me fully by unloading them, too."

Grumbling, he gingerly carried them out. She smirked at his retreating figure, holding the door open for him. Once he had crossed the threshold, she remarked "the hair's a good look for you."

Before he could respond, she shut the door on him, trusting that Lottie would help him out. She turned on her heel, approaching the sack. Taking out her scissors, she snipped down the side of the sack, careful not to damage the pretty pink silk that spilled out from the cut, like blood from a wound. Once it was done, she pulled away the burlap from the body, and stared in sickening horror.

Oh God.

What had the poor girl's mother been _thinking,_ letting her go out in that color?

It was a gorgeous pink silk she wore, and the dainty details stitched on it were pretty, but not meant for this girl, oh no. The pastel rose shade was not at all suited to her rich olive coloring and dark hair, and the sweet rosettes and touches of lace were meant for a figure less full, and the puffs and overall shape of the thing were just _wrong._

Well, to be perfectly fair, maybe she would have felt differently about the dress if the wearer had not been dubbed "hellcat." Hellcats, in Jocelyn's opinion, especially beautiful, dark, curvaceous ones, wore red. When they stopped at Espadon, she'd have to see if there was any red material to be had, and then make her a dress. She designed it in her head as she dug out the basin from under the Captain's bed and waved the smelling salts under the girl's nose. It would have to be respectable enough to wear when they brought her home, so her family would see what a better idea red fabric was for their daughter, and forever steer clear of silly frills and puffs and instead favor subtle draping, certainly in the skirt and maybe a touch in the bodice, and for sleeves…

"Jocie," said the Captain, blustering in with a silver tray under his arm, "my heroine, you are worth your weight in gold."

"Don't be a nut," she replied, "my market value's at least five times that. Are we off, then?"

He nodded, gleefully. "Roderich's at the wheel right now. This was a terrific spot. Easy to get in unnoticed, easy to vanish for a long time, and now it's stupidly easy to weasel on out. All we really had to do was lower the anchor, I was stupid to spend all day worrying about the sails giving us away…"

"Of course you were," she interrupted. "I told you I remembered all of my father's good hiding spots. Albert Ducreut was no fool. When she wakes, I'll relieve Roderich of the wheel. It's more my area, anyway, and this nursing lark is his, really."

"Of course, estimable lady," he chuckled, setting down the tray on the desk. "All I could manage was this small token of thanks, and it's not even gold, but if you can find any use for it—"

Jocelyn's breath caught. "Oh, shut it, she's waking up."

His eyes widened even further. "Really? I'll call the others."

He hissed and waved at Roderich at the wheel, who in turn called down to Lottie and Lars in the gun deck before coming in, already quietly dictating as he shooed Jocelyn away.

"Jocelyn, I hope you've got the basin handy, because if there's anything I can recall about waking up on a moving ship for the very first time, it's… oh dear."

The Captain cheerily clapped him on the shoulder. " Not like one of your Archduke's ladies, eh? That's the wonderful thing about these Southern kingdoms, they fulfill the ancient promise of Beautiful Princesses. I remember seeing the princess of my country when I was a boy, oh she's the queen now; she was in a parade, next to the Archduchess, and already I could see—"

"Lottie," Roderich cut in, speaking over his shoulder to the girl emerging from the gun deck, "you'll smack your brother, won't you?"

Confused, Lottie helped pull out her brother and looked to him. He only shrugged and followed her in. Peering over the Captain's shoulder, though, inspired her to do just as Roderich asked.

"Lars, you stupid boy," she hissed, "what have you done?"

"What have I done now?" he growled, ignoring the crew's shushing. "I put on a suit, let you run goose-shit through my hair—"

"That pomade was—"

"NO, Lottie, I don't think that there _is_ such a thing as that; in fact, I think you and everyone else only wanted an excuse to run goose shit through my hair. And I let you do that, _and_ go out in public like that, get a shiny rock smashed into half my face while the other half gets clawed off, and for my trouble I get lopped up the head and called a 'stupid boy' by my own twin—"

"Because, dipshit, you got the wrong girl!"

"Oh," said Lars.

"And now," said Lottie, "we have a royal family pissed at us, who has now allied themselves with one of the most powerful families in the civilized world."

"Ah," said Lars.

"What's _worse,_" she continued, " is that we promised not to touch one girl, but made no promises regarding this one."

"Hm," said Lars.

"And _worst_ of all," Lottie spoke, "word about this is going to get out, and that beautiful, beautiful brainchild of a plot? It's going to mean nothing, because the rest of the pirating along with the law-abiding world is going to be laughing their asses off about the foolish crew of _El Cuco_ who couldn't get the wrong damn princess, as we dangle!"

"Evenin'," said Lars to the waking princess.

Taking his cue, Roderich pulled away the smelling salts, and held up the basin to the girl's face while gently holding back her hair as she retched into it. When she was finished, he mopped her face up and helped her sit up slowly on the edge of the bed. Blearily, she took in her surroundings, and when her gaze fell on the captain, he took his cue.

"A good evening to you, my lady," said the Captain, doffing his feathered hat (the one for good occasions). "We are the crew of the ship _El Cuco. _The good man exiting the premises at this moment with the basin is our cook, Roderich; the sweet lady yonder is our steerswoman, Jocelyn Ducreut (perhaps you've heard of her father, Captain Albert Ducreut); this strange gentleman is my First Mate, Lars, and this is Lottie, his twin and our sailswoman extraordinare. And last, but certainly not least, my lady, is this your humble servant, Captain Antonio Fernandes Carriedo," he concluded, bowing for effect.

There was a long pause where she just stared before finally mumbling "pirate."

"Oh, that's not a very attractive word," he grinned. "Usually, I'll accept it, but—oh, stand carefully, your highness, you've yet to get your sea legs—but I generally prefer 'man of fortune,' or lately I rather fancy—"

She grabbed the tray off the desk, wielding it with fire in her eyes, barking "Everybody out!"

The captain's smile fell. "That's real Northern silver…"

"Out!" she shrieked, swinging at him. He ducked with a yelp, landing on his rear.

"Captain," said Lars, helping him up as the rest of the crew quickly backed out of the cabin around them, "look at what she did to me with her bare hands. Let's not think about what she can do with something in them."

"But it's my cabin," the Captain insisted weakly as he was dragged out and the door slammed shut in his face.

There was a terrible awkward silence as they all stood on the deck, shamefully avoiding eye contact with one another.

"Well, what's gone wrong?" came Jocelyn's voice from the wheel. "How bad is it?"

Lottie, still glaring at her brother, began to speak, but the captain cut her off—"we've just found another one of those Life and Learning experiences that everyone loves so much. Also, someone gets the fantastic honor of sharing their hammock with me! Now everyone make a bid, but don't all jump at once."

Jocelyn made a face. "Ah. It's _that _bad."

**Hapy Chrismakwaanaka, A Joyous Festivus, and the Happiest of New Years, all.**

**If this was anyone's holiday wish (doubtful), here ye be. **

**No real historical notes for this monstrous beast of a text, but a few little bitsy things:**

**Jocelyn Ducreut is my name for Monaco. Her nickname, Jocie, is pronounced "JAW-see," and holds no cultural significance, really, but much sentimental value. **

**There is no Finnish name "Tino," so I'm taking the variant of Timothy, "Timo," which is a bit more usual. His nostalgic "Northern Guard" may or may not appear again, I really couldn't say… (shifty eyes)**

**Antonini is no one, really. Just a background character who annoys Timo and drives him to homicidal thoughts. I think we've all met someone like that at one point or another.**

**Be good to one another, and thank you all for paying attention to this scribble. I promise I haven't abandoned any of my work here. Mwah.**


End file.
